Von Neumann’s War

After weeks of analysis they had a real good handle on the signal the bots used to communicate with each other. Centered at 1.42 gigahertz in the frequency spectrum there was a string of very fine bands — almost impulse functions with zero width — all of which were spread from the kilohertz all the way up to the terahertz. The frequency spike transmissions did not remain locked at the same frequency either. They randomly jumped from one frequency to the next along the many spikes that the bots used spread across the radio and microwave spectrum.

The unfascinating part was that spread spectrum technology was well understood and was a basis for ultra-wideband communications technology. The 802.11a, 802.11b, 802.11h, and 802.11g protocols used the technology, although their allocated spectrum was not as spread out as the ones the bots used.

The fascinating part was that the damned aliens used such a mundane technology that seemed so… so Earthly. Perhaps radio was a universal constant. After all, there were so many sources of RF in the universe that any advanced civilization should understand the technology quite readily. But, and the but here was significant, why would an interstellar traveling species limit themselves to speed of light communications? Perhaps the bots and their makers were limited to the speed of light limit. Once upon a time scientists would have said “Duh” to that pronouncement. For many decades the light limit was considered a hard and fast rule in physics. Recent theories, though, indicated that it might be possible to go faster than light, or at least to have FTL communications. But the alien probes still used radio. Perhaps it was a clue, and a good one if it was true, that the probes were not that much further advanced than humanity. Who knew?

Now if he could just figure out that unobtainium grabber field that Shane had noted.

What Roger did know was that they now had a way to track the bots’ movements. Hopefully, before long they might even be able to decrypt the hopping spectral broadcasts and therefore learn more about them. But the spectrum hopping sequence seemed basically random or at least more encrypted than anybody at the NSA and the CIA had ever seen. They kept trying, though; maybe, just maybe, somebody would figure it out.

* * *

“Hey, Major, Sergeant Major,” Alan said, waving them towards the covered range. “We’re still working on some of these weapons, but this is what we’ve got for you so far.”

Shane looked at the collection arrayed down the line and shook his head.

“They look like toys,” he said. “Or a redneck’s back yard.”

There was a weapon that looked vaguely like a bazooka with a magazine that was apparently constructed mostly of PVC and duct tape. There were two plastic rifles that clearly had ancestry in something bought at a local Toys R Us, and a covered object on the far end. Waiting by the weapons was a large person Shane hadn’t met yet. Very large. He both overtopped Cady and outweighed him. The guy was a fucking mountain with black, shaggy but short hair, massive hands and shoulders, and a long, lugubrious face. He looked like Abraham Lincoln on a bad day.

“Well, that’s what they is, Major,” the man said in a slow Cajun drawl. “We’uns done did the best job we could with the time we got. When you guys go we’un gonna give you better stuff. But this is what you might call the prototyping period.”

“Major Shane Gries, Sergeant Major Thomas Cady,” Alan said, waving at the two soldiers. “Doctor Phillip Krain, Ph.D. Lurch, Shane and Cady.”

“Pleased to meet you, Major,” the man said, slowly reaching out and shaking his hand. The Ph.D.’s paw absorbed Shane’s.

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor,” Shane said, realizing that if the guy wanted to rip his arm off he was going to be going around the rest of his life with a stump. “You’re a…”

“My specialty’s chemistry,” Krain said, shaking Cady’s hand as well. “Exothermic reactions.”

“He’s really good at getting things to blow up,” Alan translated.

“Call me Lurch,” the doctor said. “Everybody does.”

“So what do you have for us, Alan?” Shane asked, looking at the weapons curiously.

“Well, we’ve got the potato gun,” Alan said, hefting the PVC and duct tape construction. “No metallic parts, fires either contact explosive or Coyote rounds.”

He lifted the device to his shoulder and fired downrange at a man-sized target. The round landed behind the target with a puff and a CRACK! at which he grimaced.

“It’s not terribly easy to aim…” he admitted. He looked back downrange and on the third round managed to hit the man-sized target at fifty yards. When he did, however, the center of the target disappeared in the resultant explosion.

“Very nice,” Shane said, frowning.